novelraw Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 6 - Reunion, Vindication and Restoration
Arc 4 - Nalopakhyana - Chapter 6 - Reunion, Vindication and Restoration
Rituparṇa looked about him often, seeking some sign of the swayamvara, but none was to be seen. No kings had gathered, no princes adorned the halls, no brahmanas recited mantras, and no festival cries arose.
Then Bhīma approached and said with courtesy:
“Welcome, O king! Tell me, what is the cause of thy visit?”
He asked, unknowing that the ruler of Ayodhyā had hastened thither in quest of his daughter’s hand. Rituparṇa, seeing no trace of the rite and discerning the truth of the stratagem, reflected within and then replied:
“I have come, O lord of Vidarbha, to pay thee my respects.”
At this Bhīma was astonished. Passing over a hundred yojanas, forsaking other sovereigns, traversing many kingdoms, Rituparṇa had come only for this? Bhīma thought within himself: “The reason he declares is slight indeed. Surely some deeper cause has drawn him hither. That truth I shall learn in time.”
Yet outwardly he honoured him with gentle words:
“Rest, O king. Thou art weary from the road.”
And with delight in his heart, Bhīma led Rituparṇa to his appointed quarters, where the royal attendants served him with all honour.
When Rituparṇa was gone, Vāhuka brought the car to the stables. There he loosed the horses, groomed them with his own hands, and soothed them as Nala himself once had done. Having tended them, he sat quietly by the side of the car.
Meanwhile, Damayantī, still trembling with grief, pondered the scene she had beheld. She said to herself:
“This rattle of the chariot was loud and deep, even as Nala’s.
Yet the king of Niṣadhas I do not see.
Is it Varṣṇeya who has learned the art from my lord,
so that the sound of his driving is like Nala’s own?
Or perchance Rituparṇa, skilled in many arts,
has equalled him in mastery,
so that his car too resounds with the same voice?”
Thus reflecting in doubt, the blessed princess, radiant though sorrow-worn, sent forth a trusted handmaiden to search for the lord of Niṣadhas.
Damayantī, her heart trembling between dread and hope, turned to her companion Keśinī and said:
“Go forth, O blessed one, and mark well that charioteer—
he who sits beside the car, unsightly in form,
with shortened arms, yet bearing a quiet majesty.
Approach him gently, with words of courtesy,
and learn who he is and whence he comes.
My heart leaps at his presence,
as though I behold my lord himself.
Fear stirs within me—
for if this indeed be Nala,
the fire of grief that has consumed me
may at last find its rest.”
Thus instructed, Keśinī, cautious and wise, descended and approached Vāhuka. Meanwhile the princess of Vidarbha watched intently from her terrace, her gaze fixed upon the stranger’s form.
The messenger bowed and spoke:
“O foremost of men, thou art welcome. May happiness be thine.
Hear now the words of Damayantī, daughter of Bhīma.
Tell me, when did ye set forth, and for what purpose?
Speak truly, for the princess longs to know.”
Vāhuka, steady in voice though burning within, replied:
“The illustrious king of Kośala heard from a wandering brāhmaṇa
that a second svayaṃvara of Damayantī would be held.
Eager to be present, he came swiftly hither,
borne on steeds fleet as the rushing wind,
coursing a hundred yojanas in a single day.
I am but his charioteer.”
Then Keśinī inquired further:
“And who is the third among you?
Whence comes he, and whose son is he?
And thou, O Vāhuka, whose son art thou?
How camest thou to guide the reins of kings?”
Vāhuka answered with measured words:
“That one is Varṣṇeya, once the charioteer
of the noble king Nala, famed for righteousness.
When the Niṣadha lord abandoned his kingdom,
Varṣṇeya entered the service of Rituparṇa.
As for myself—I am skilled in the lore of horses,
and for this cause the king chose me.
I am his charioteer, and also his cook.”
Keśinī, searching yet deeper, pressed him again:
“But surely Varṣṇeya, who once served the Niṣadha king,
knows something of his master’s fate.
Has he spoken with thee, perchance, of Nala?”
To this Vāhuka replied gravely:
“When Varṣṇeya bore away the children of Nala,
he departed whithersoever he pleased.
He knows not where the king now roams.
None knows it. For Naishadha wanders the earth
in disguise, bereft of beauty,
his true form hidden from all eyes.
Only Nala knows Nala.
And he never reveals himself.”
Hearing this, Keśinī spoke again the secret words Damayantī had commanded, recalling the message once sent through the brāhmaṇa:
“The princess of Vidarbha repeats to thee:
‘O beloved gambler, where hast thou gone,
cutting away half my garment
and leaving me, thy devoted wife,
abandoned in the forest, asleep in sorrow?
Long have I waited, clad in tatters,
burning day and night with grief.
O king, relent toward her who weeps ceaselessly.
Speak again the words thou once gavest in reply,
for she, blameless and true,
pants to hear them once more.’”
Thus spoke Keśinī, bearing the message of the queen.
Vrihadaswa said:
O son of the Kuru line, when Keśinī had spoken thus, the words pierced Nala’s heart like arrows. His breast heaved with sorrow, his eyes brimmed with tears. Long did he strive to master his grief, but the fire within could not be wholly contained. With accents broken, his voice trembling, he uttered these words:
“Chaste women, though struck by calamity,
stand firm as mountains in the storm;
their virtue is their armour,
by which they ascend to heaven.
Deserted, yet they bear no anger,
for anger profits naught.
They endure, encased in dharma’s shield,
though bereft of joy and comfort.
A wife should not reproach her lord
when cruel fate has stripped him bare,
when birds have seized his garment,
when he, in hunger, wanders forlorn.
Whether cherished or neglected,
whether raised high or cast low,
she should behold her husband
with the eyes of steadfast love—
even when he is robbed of kingdom,
bereft of prosperity,
and crushed by misery.”
As these words escaped his lips, the king, overwhelmed, could speak no further. Grief surged like a river breaking its banks, and he wept openly, unable to restrain the tears that fell.
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Keśinī, beholding this unfeigned outpouring, bowed silently and returned to her mistress. And she recounted faithfully every word, and also the burst of sorrow she had witnessed in Vāhuka’s heart.
Vrihadaswa said:
Hearing all that Keśinī had reported, Damayantī’s heart throbbed with grief and hope. Suspicion deepened into near-certainty, and she spoke with tearful voice:
“O Keśinī, faithful one,
go once more and mark Vāhuka closely.
Stand silent at his side;
observe him in stillness and in act.
If he seeks fire or water,
delay in giving—
that his true nature may shine forth.
Whatever thou seest,
human or superhuman,
bring unto me without concealment.”
Thus instructed, Keśinī went again. Watching keenly, she beheld marvel upon marvel. Returning swiftly, she told all:
“O Damayantī, never before have I seen such command over the elements! At his approach, low doorways rose in height; narrow passages widened of their own accord. King Bhīma had sent many meats for Rituparṇa’s table, with vessels placed for washing. As Vāhuka looked, the vessels brimmed with water unbidden. Taking grass in hand, he held it toward the sun, and suddenly fire blazed forth. He touched the flame, yet was not burned. At his will, water gushed forth like a stream. Still greater wonder I saw—he pressed flowers in his palm, and instead of withering, they grew more radiant, sweeter in fragrance than before. Amazed by these signs, I hastened back.”
Vrihadaswa continued:
Hearing these words, Damayantī’s certainty grew. Her heart trembled, and she wept in secret, saying softly to Keśinī:
“O blessed one, bring to me meat
cooked by his hand,
without his knowing,
for oft have I tasted my lord’s fare,
and my heart will know its savor.”
Obedient, Keśinī returned, and quickly stole from the kitchen meat prepared by Vāhuka. She placed it before Damayantī. The princess tasted—instantly memory awakened, for the flavor was Nala’s own. Certain now, she wept aloud, her face bathed in tears.
Then, unable to restrain her longing, she sent her children Indrasenā and her brother with Keśinī. And Nala, though in guise, beheld them as one beholds a vision of heaven.
With sudden haste he rose, embracing them both, lifting them to his lap.
Like a storm-swollen river bursting its banks,
so did his grief overflow.
The king wept aloud,
his deep voice trembling like thunder,
clasping the children to his breast
as if never to let them go.
But soon, oppressed by sorrow and the fear of discovery, he set them down and turned to Keśinī, saying:
“O fair one, these twins are like my own! Seeing them thus, tears broke forth unbidden. But if thou comest often, tongues will wag, for we are strangers in this place. Therefore, blessed one, return at thy ease.”
Vrihadaswa said:
Beholding Nala’s agitation and grief, Keśinī returned swiftly to Damayantī and told her all. Hearing, the princess’ heart trembled with sorrow and longing. With resolve, she sent Keśinī to her mother with this message:
“O mother, I have tested Vāhuka in many ways.
His skill, his power, his words—all are Nala’s.
Only his form veils my certainty.
Therefore, let him be brought before me,
or grant me leave to go to him.
Arrange this as thou thinkest best—
whether my father knows or not.”
Thus instructed, her mother revealed it to King Bhīma. And Bhīma, pondering his daughter’s anguish, consented.
So it was that Damayantī caused Vāhuka to be brought into her private chambers.
As Nala entered and beheld her, tears broke forth like rain-clouds burst upon the earth. He, once kingly in form, now trembled in grief; and she, once radiant with jewels, stood before him clad in a single red cloth, her locks matted, her body dust-stained, eyes streaming like rivers in flood.
With voice choked in sorrow, Damayantī spoke:
“O Vāhuka, tell me—
hast thou known a man of dharma
who deserted his wife,
left sleeping in the forest,
weary, innocent, and unoffending?
Who, save Nala,
could abandon his beloved—
the wife of his vows,
chosen above gods themselves?
Before Agni, before the celestials,
he clasped my hand, saying:
‘Verily, I am thine.’
Where was that vow
when I was left alone in the woods,
cast off like one forgotten?”
Her words, heavy with anguish, fell like thunderbolts. Tears rained from her eyes, glistening like lotus-petals washed by storm.
Nala, beholding her thus, wept also. His eyes shone like a stag’s—dark yet rimmed with red. And with trembling voice he answered:
“O gentle one,
not by my will did I lose kingdom or thee.
All was wrought by Kali,
who entered me through thy curse.
Day and night thou didst lament me,
and thy wrath burned him like hidden fire.
In agony he dwelt within me,
tormenting me without cease.
By penance and by observances,
I have cast him forth.
Freed from his grip,
I have come here for thy sake alone.
But, O fair one,
canst thou think to choose another,
leaving the husband of thy vows?
For heralds cry abroad—
‘Bhīma’s daughter will choose again.’
Hearing this, the son of Bhangasura came hither,
swift with desire.”
Hearing the lamentations of Nala, Damayantī, trembling and fearful, bowed with folded hands and spoke:
“O blessed one, do not think any fault of me!
Passing over the celestials themselves,
I chose thee, O ruler of Niṣadhas, as my lord.
To bring thee back I sent Brahmanas
to the farthest quarters of the earth,
singing my sorrow in ballads,
repeating thy name to the winds.
At last the learned Parnāda found thee in Kosala,
in the palace of king Ṛtuparṇa.
Thy words, spoken then, revealed thyself,
and so I devised this scheme to recover thee.
None save thee, O monarch,
could cross a hundred yojanas in a single day—
none save thee, lord of steeds,
none save thee, my Nala!
Touching thy feet I swear—
never in thought, never in deed
have I strayed from thee.
May the all-witnessing Wind take my life if I lie.
May the Sun who courses daily see my end if I lie.
May the Moon who dwells in every heart
forsake me if I lie.
Let the Three who sustain the triple worlds
judge me truly—or abandon me today!”
So spoke the princess, her voice choked with tears.
Then from the sky the Wind-god himself replied:
“O Nala, doubt not.
Damayantī hath done no wrong.
She hath guarded thy honour and exalted thy line.
We, who have been her unseen protectors
these three sorrowful years, bear witness.
For thy sake she devised this wondrous scheme,
knowing none but thou could ride
a hundred yojanas in one day.
O king, thou hast won again Bhīma’s daughter,
and she too hath regained her lord.
Cast aside suspicion—be united in joy.”
As the Wind-god’s voice faded, the heavens trembled with auspicious sounds. Flowers rained down from the sky, the celestial kettle-drums resounded, and fragrant breezes, cool and gentle, stirred the earth.
Beholding these marvels, Nala, the represser of foes, cast away all doubt. Remembering the gift of the serpent-king, he donned the pure garment. In that instant his deformity vanished, and he stood once more in his radiant form, glorious as in former days.
Damayantī beheld her righteous lord—restored, resplendent, steadfast. With a cry, she fell upon his breast, weeping aloud. Nala, too, embraced her, his long-lost children at his side, his heart swelling with joy. She buried her face in his bosom, sighing deeply, remembering the griefs that had scarred her, while he, that tiger among men, stood silent, holding her dust-stained, beautiful form close, as if never to release her again.
The queen-mother, beholding this reunion, ran with glad heart to King Bhīma, and told him all. And Bhīma, mighty monarch, said with joy:
“Let Nala rest this night in peace.
To-morrow, bathed and blessed,
I shall behold him with Damayantī by his side.”
Thus the night was passed sweetly, husband and wife recalling the sorrows of the forest, their hearts rejoicing in renewed union. And in the fourth year after the loss of his kingdom, Nala, his desires fulfilled, tasted again the highest bliss.
Damayantī shone forth in joy as fields long parched that receive sudden rain. Her beauty blazed, her weariness was gone, her anxieties dispelled. Reunited with her lord, she glowed like the night lit by the full, radiant moon.
When dawn broke, King Nala, adorned once more in ornaments of royalty, came forth with Damayantī beside him. Together they bowed before King Bhīma. With due humility Nala saluted his father-in-law, and Damayantī, fair and faultless, followed her husband’s lead.
King Bhīma, exalted ruler of Vidarbha, embraced them both with the joy of a father restored to his children. Honouring Nala as a son, he spoke words of comfort and delight, while Damayantī, radiant with recovered bliss, stood by her husband’s side.
News spread quickly through the city, and the citizens, learning that their princess had regained her lord, burst into tumultuous joy. Flags and standards fluttered from the housetops, garlands of flowers crowned the streets, and fragrant wreaths were strewn upon the ground. Shrines and temples shone with blossoms, and the whole city was decked as if for a festival of the gods.
Meanwhile, in distant Kosala, King Ṛtuparṇa heard that Vāhuka had been revealed as Nala, and that the long-separated pair were united. Glad at heart, the monarch sent for Nala, and when they met, he spoke with earnestness:
“By good fortune, O Naishadha,
thou hast regained thy beloved,
and happiness once more is thine.
While thou dwelt in my palace in disguise,
I hope I wronged thee not.
But if unknowingly I erred,
forgive me, O ruler of men!”
Nala, steadfast and gracious, replied with gentle words:
“O King, never didst thou injure me,
not in the least, nor didst thou waken my ire.
Thou wert my friend before,
and now thou art bound as kin.
In thy house I lived content,
happier, indeed, than in mine own halls.
Be thou ever dear to me, O ruler of Kosala.
This lore of horses, O monarch,
is now in my keeping.
If it please thee, I will bestow it—
as a friend bestows his treasure.”
So saying, Naishadha imparted to Ṛtuparṇa the sacred science of horse-lore, while in turn receiving from him the guarded mystery of dice. With ritual observances they exchanged their secrets, each blessing the other.
Thus did Ṛtuparṇa, the son of Bhangasura, return to his city, employing another as charioteer, content in the knowledge he had gained. And Nala, lord of the Niṣadhas, after honouring his hosts in Kundina, tarried not long in that city.
After dwelling in Vidarbha for a month, the lord of Niṣadha sought his own land once more. With Bhīma’s blessing, and accompanied by a modest but resplendent retinue—a single chariot white as moonlight, sixteen elephants like moving hills, fifty steeds swift as the wind, and six hundred infantry gleaming with arms—Nala advanced, shaking the earth with the weight of his return.
Raging with righteous fire, the mighty son of Vīrasena stood before his brother and spoke:
“Again we shall play, O Pushkara!
For I have gathered wealth anew.
Let Damayantī, and all I possess, be my stake;
And let thy kingdom stand as thine.
Either dice shall decide our fates,
Or else let weapons choose the heir.
For sages declare it a sacred duty
To reclaim the kingdom of one’s fathers
By any means ordained of dharma.
Choose then, O brother: dice or the bow!”
Pushkara, swollen with vanity, answered with mocking laughter:
“Fortune favours me, O Naishadha!
Again thy wealth shall fall into my hands.
Fortune smiles on Damayantī also,
That she shall soon be mine.
Adorned with the treasure I shall seize,
She will wait on me as an Apsarā
Waits upon Indra in heaven.
Daily have I longed for this day,
When, by blood and by fate,
I shall win both wife and wealth!”
Hearing these words of folly, Nala’s eyes blazed crimson. His hand itched for the sword, but restraining himself, he answered with calm fire:
“Speak what thou wilt, O fool.
Yet first let the dice be cast.
Only after victory mayst thou boast.”
Then began the game. But this time Kali’s shadow was gone, and Nala’s hand moved with the certainty of dharma. With a single throw he reclaimed his wealth, his treasures, and even the life of Pushkara that had been staked in arrogance.
Smiling, the king addressed his humbled brother:
“This kingdom, whole and without thorn,
Returns to me by right.
Never again shalt thou even gaze
Upon Damayantī of Vidarbha.
With thy kin and household, O wretch,
Thou art reduced to her slave.
Yet know, my first defeat was not by thee,
But by the malice of Kali.
Thy hand was blameless, thy triumph false;
I hold no hatred for thee.
Live, Pushkara! I grant thy life.
I grant thee also thy share of our fathers’ realm,
With wealth and means to thrive.
For thou art still my brother,
And fraternal love cannot die.
Live a hundred years in peace!”
Thus consoled, Pushkara bowed low, his pride broken, his hands joined in reverence:
“Let thy fame endure immortal, O King!
Mayst thou dwell in happiness ten thousand years,
Thou who hast given me both life and refuge.”
For a month he tarried there, feasted and honoured, and then returned to his city with kinsmen, servants, and loyal guards, his heart lightened, his life renewed.
But Nala, resplendent as the sun, entered his adorned palace. He comforted his people, who came thronging with tears of joy, their bodies thrilled, their hearts unburdened. With hands joined they cried aloud:
“O King, glad indeed are we!
Glad is the city, glad the land!
Today we behold our true ruler again,
As the gods behold their Indra,
Lord of a hundred sacrifices!”
When the celebrations had filled the city of Niṣadha with joy, Nala, lord of men, went forth with a great force to bring Damayantī from her father’s house. King Bhīma, lion among warriors, who had long guarded his daughter with the strength of his immeasurable soul, sent her forth with honour, adorned in all auspiciousness.
And when the princess of Vidarbha returned, with her son and daughter by her side, Nala’s heart blossomed like a lotus touched by morning sun. He moved among his people like Indra in the gardens of Nandana, restored to joy, his griefs a memory fading behind him.
Regaining his throne, Nala of unwithering fame ruled once more as a monarch of Jambūdvīpa, bright among kings like the sun amidst stars. He performed great sacrifices, pouring wealth upon the Brāhmaṇas like clouds releasing torrents upon the earth. His name spread wide, honoured in sacrifice, battle, and dharma.
Then Vrihadaśva, the sage, spoke to Yudhiṣṭhira:
“O son of the Kuru race,
thus did Nala, subduer of foes,
fall from his throne through dice,
and wander long in sorrow with his queen.
Alone he suffered the fire of misfortune,
yet by patience and austerity
regained both wife and kingdom.
But thou, O son of Pāṇḍu,
art not alone—
with brothers, with Krishna by thy side,
and with Brāhmaṇas versed in the Veda
who daily share their wisdom with thee.
Wherefore, then, should sorrow master thee?
This tale of Nala and Damayantī,
of Karkoṭaka, of Rituparṇa,
is a purifier of men,
a destroyer of Kali’s shadow.
It brings peace to those who hear it,
and strength to endure the turns of fate.
Reflect, O king, on destiny’s caprice,
on the vanity of joy and grief.
The wise do not sink beneath misfortune,
nor exult beyond measure in prosperity.
He who listens to this tale
finds adversity powerless against him.
He gains sons and grandsons,
cattle and wealth,
a noble station,
and renown among men.
His purposes are fulfilled,
his life crowned with joy.”
Then, seeing the shadow upon Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart, the sage added:
“Thou fearest the dice, O King,
that again some hand may summon thee.
Cast away thy fear!
For I know the lore of dice entire,
the science of numbers and throws.
Gratified with thee, I shall impart it.
Receive it, O son of Kuntī,
and be armed against deceit.”
Thus did Yudhiṣṭhira bow with joy, saying: “O illustrious one, teach me.” And Vrihadaśva, the ascetic, poured the lore of dice into the king’s heart, making him master of the game that once had robbed him of all.
Having bestowed this gift, the sage departed for the sacred waters of Hayasirṣa to perform his bath and vows.
When he had gone, tidings came to Yudhiṣṭhira from wandering ascetics and Brāhmaṇas, who told him of Arjuna, his brother, still lost in penance. They said:
“The mighty-armed Pārtha,
who can draw the bow with either hand,
abides in forests deep,
living on air alone.
Fierce is his tapas,
fierce beyond all who came before.
Silent he stands, his mind unmoved,
blazing like Dharma himself in human form.”
Hearing of his brother’s austere vow, Yudhiṣṭhira’s heart burned with sorrow. And amidst the hermits of many paths who dwelt with him in that forest, the king sought comfort, speaking long of destiny, dharma, and his brother’s trial.